


Salvation

by SweetSorcery



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: 1800s, Age of Sail, Blindfolds, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-31
Updated: 2009-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-05 13:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSorcery/pseuds/SweetSorcery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wellard's days are hell. But at night, he finds comfort in an unlikely place with a mysterious ally. If he could only discover who it is...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salvation

The humiliation was bad; it should have been worse than the pain. But the pain was ever so unbearable.

Wellard made his way to his hammock, walking like a man three times his age. Each step stretched skin raw from the bosun's cane, and even breathing seemed to make it hurt more.

He tried to sleep, but there was no comfortable way to lie in a hammock after a dozen lashes. If he had a real bed, perhaps...

Wellard tried to bring sleep nearer by pondering a feather pillow, thick, soft blankets like clouds about him, and the fresh, clean scent of linen dried in a summer breeze. He'd only known such luxury once, very briefly, before he had come aboard the Renown. Those few days spent at Lieutenant Hornblower's home where the old Mister Hornblower always took great care that everything was fresh and new and clean...

Wellard sighed. Those few days had been pure heaven. But it was no use. Thinking of those elusive comforts, the pain seemed a hundred times more agonizing.

He swung his legs over the edge of his hammock and whimpered in pain. And that was when he heard something, sounding almost like a whimper in response.

"Who is there?" he asked, frowning into the darkness. Most of the hammocks around him were occupied with off-duty midshipmen. But they all appeared to be sleeping. "Hello?" he tried again, speaking softly so as not to wake anyone.

No one answered, but Wellard could have sworn there was someone hiding in the shadows, just through the doorway into the mess. He climbed from his hammock, suppressing a groan, and slowly moved towards the door.

There was definitely movement there, but with each step Wellard took, the other steps moved further away, until he decided he must have imagined them after all in his drowsy state. Though now that he had left his hammock, and knew that sleep would likely not come to him, he decided that he might as well go for a brief walk.

~ ~ ~

He stood up on deck, enjoying the coolness of the night air against his skin, content to let the wind tug at his hair and caress his face.

Wellard was glad of the relative quiet during this watch, and he leaned carefully against a mast, hidden by darkness and out of sight of the crew, yet still exposed to the refreshing breeze.

And then he heard them again. The footsteps which had lured him from his hammock originally. They slowly and quietly moved across the deck, the steps of someone not wishing to be noticed.

"Show yourself, sir," Wellard demanded bravely, for it was clear now that the unseen prowler was out for him.

"Or what?" hissed a deep voice from the darkness behind him.

Wellard, though quick and agile, did not turn rapidly enough to prevent the man, hidden in the shadows, getting the better of him, and before he had a chance to fight him off, he found himself with one strong arm around his middle and a hand covering his mouth.

"Not a word!"

Wellard nodded in the unyielding though not painful grasp. The solid body he felt against his back, though somewhat uncomfortable against his wounded buttocks, was, oddly enough, the warmest, most reassuring thing he could remember in a long time.

"I am not going to hurt you," the man hissed close to Wellard's ear, and the boy's eyes fluttered closed at the warmth of the breath.

He realized that the man's tone was designed to hide his true identity from him. This realization nagged at Wellard, for it surely meant this man was someone who assumed he might be recognized by his voice alone.

Feverishly, Wellard's mind grappled with images of any and all men onboard the Renown who might, conceivably, capture him so oddly on a late-night walk above deck.

Lieutenant Hornblower? Not so, for this man's body was sturdier than that. Lieutenant Kennedy maybe? No, Wellard could tell from the warmth along the whole length of his own body that this man was taller even than he himself was, while Mister Kennedy certainly was not. Lieutenant Bush was expediently ruled out for the same reason. Buckland? The very idea of that great oaf attacking anyone was laughable. And it was certainly none of the other midshipmen, with whose voices he was quite familiar through daily contact. It had to be one of the ratings, the marines, or one of the warrant officers.

While Wellard's mind was still feverishly at work, the man holding him in his clasp shifted, and the boy's attention was drawn back to the present with sudden urgency as he felt a firm pressure against the top of his backside.

"Mmmpf!!" he mumbled into the large hand across his mouth, his eyes widening as he tried to shift away, but his captor did not yield.

"You're not supposed to make a sound!" the man whispered, but shifted backwards a little as if suddenly aware of his dilemma also.

Oh, that warm breath against his ear and neck felt good! Wellard felt himself leaning ever so slightly into the crushing embrace, which brought him back to reality and made him struggle once more. Damn this man - whoever he was - to assault him this way and make him weak in the knees as well!

The hand on Wellard's mouth did not shift at all, for clearly, he was expected to scream the moment he was free to do so. His assailant did not wish to take the chance.

"Stop fighting me, boy."

A gentler note to the voice now, and something in the wording made Wellard start, and he nodded again.

"I promise I won't hurt you. I'm going to help you."

Help him? By attacking him in the dark?

As if the stranger had read Wellard's thoughts, he added a softly whispered, "Yes, help you. I couldn't... earlier..." Hesitation, guilt even. "But I want to help you now. If you'll let me."

Wellard simply listened, as much to the voice as to the words, desperately wanting to know who was holding him so tightly and, irrationally, making him feel so good by the simple presence of his solid body against his own.

"Will you let me?" That particular question made the other's breath pass over Wellard's nape in a way that felt eerily like a kiss, and he whimpered involuntarily, yet silently, only audible to him and his captor.

He nodded quickly, and the man behind him said, "Good. I'm going to tend to your wounds. Properly. Not like that butcher, Clive."

This sent a shiver of delight through Wellard's slight frame, and he cursed himself for his need to have someone - even someone not brave enough to show himself - offer him such kindness.

"I shall let go of you now, but you mustn't turn, do you hear me? You may not see me, nor follow me."

Wellard mumbled agreement into the palm over his mouth, and nodded for good measure.

"Come down to the hold. But not right away. I shall wait there for you."

And with that, the hands and the warm body against Wellard's back vanished, and he was alone once more. Or so he assumed. He kept his murmured promise not to turn prematurely, and once he did, the man who had offered him his help had vanished.

Wellard was torn. He desperately wanted to know who it was. Had to know. But there was danger in this, for anyone having to remain in obscurity this way clearly posed some threat.

But there was something else which was as much enticement as it was warning to Wellard. In those few moments of being in the man's clutches, he had grown more aroused than he had ever been in his young life. And he was not so naive that he did not realize much the same thing had happened to his captor.

If he went below for this meeting, what would occur? The possibilities, so far as he could imagine them, were tantalizing to say the least, though Wellard had to consider the possibility that the whole thing was a trap by one of the men loyal to Captain Sawyer, and that he would be in for yet another sound beating, or worse, upon going below.

No. That was not right. Wellard felt, even without knowing the man's identity, that he would not hurt him. And he could usually trust his own judgement.

So he waited a few minutes more, and then went below, carefully sneaking past crewmen on watch duty and crewmen half-stupefied from their extra rations of rum. And then he was in the hold, and so far as he could tell, alone.

"Didn't think you'd come."

Wellard had to fight back the urge to yelp with delight. "I shouldn't have."

"But you did." The satisfaction was tangible in the voice. "Sit on that chest there, by the casks of wine."

Wellard, as excited as he was apprehensive, interjected reluctantly, "It hurts. I cannot sit."

"Sorry." A moment's thought. "Come towards me then. You can tell where I am."

"Yes," Wellard admitted, walking into the hidden areas of the hold from where the voice originated.

The moment Wellard felt the presence right behind him, his eyes were already covered, a dark cloth - probably a neck-kerchief, judging by the texture of the linen - tied around his head. Then, he was pulled backwards. Out of sight of anyone who might pass through the hold, and a brief trickle of fear ran down his spine.

"Why may I not see you?" he asked in the same whisper in which he was being spoken to.

"I'm afraid I cannot tell you that."

Wellard guessed that would have to suffice. "I know you then," he said nonetheless.

"I've never heard you talk so much!"

Wellard's mouth quirked into a smile as he turned his head towards the voice, and for a moment, their progress into the hidden depths of the hold was halted.

"It's a shame you don't smile more. But I don't suppose you have much reason to." A regretful sigh.

Wellard blushed, feeling unaccountably warm.

They continued a little further into the recesses of the hold, Wellard having no idea where they were but guessing they were well hidden from spying eyes, should there be any. "I do wish I could see you." He surprised himself and his captor with the touch of longing in his voice.

Instead of a response, the man's arms moved around him again, but this time, Wellard felt none of the panic of earlier, only the pleasant warmth of the body pressed full length along his back.

Wellard instinctively covered the arms around his middle with his hands, as if he was trying to loosen the grasp. Instead, he held them firmly in place. "I thought you were going to help me."

"I am."

Soft lips lingered at his nape, then brushed over the tender skin there, and this time, without the restraint of a hand across his mouth, Wellard did not suppress his sigh of pleasure.

The body against his back stiffened, as if his captor was not sure what to make of that reaction. But in a moment, the lips were back, pressing a heated kiss to the smooth flesh, and then the tip of a tongue darted out to flicker against the slowly pinking skin.

Wellard moaned softly, and his eyes closed beneath his blindfold.

"Shh..." the voice quietened him down, and the lips moved around the side of Wellard's neck and to his ear, where they blew softly before fastening on the tender lobe.

This time, Wellard let out a mere squeak, which was caught in the hand briefly covering his mouth once more.

"Anyone hears us, we're dead."

"Sorry!" Wellard whispered excitedly. He had no idea this earned a pleased smile, but he could certainly tell that the semi-familiar voice sounded much huskier than before.

He was so distracted by the kisses against his neck that he never noticed the subtle shifting of the arm around his waist, until he felt a hand move lower, long fingers pointing downwards as they approached his groin. And with a jolt, his beginning hardness moved straight up against his belly, as if reaching towards the hand.

But the hand's progress stopped, and instead, it helped the other hand undo his breeches and tug them lower.

Wellard staggered, but was steadied by the hands on his hips, before they resumed their task of lowering his breeches past his slender hips. He was breathing raggedly, and instantly, all physical contact ceased, and he felt terribly cold.

The other stood less than two feet away from him, but was trying hard to regain his composure. This had not been what he'd planned. He had only meant to offer his meagre skills to heal the wounds he felt in part responsible for. He had not meant to kiss the boy! God, what should he do?

As if he had been party to the unvoiced dilemma, Wellard whispered urgently, "What are you doing?" When that yielded no response at all, he asked more hesitantly, "What are you going to do?"

"Tend to your wounds," he was told in a flat voice.

Unable to articulate his true desires beyond a somewhat disappointed sounding 'oh', Wellard was at his captor's mercy. The warmth of the body behind him moved lower, and Wellard gathered the man was kneeling behind him. And then he felt the coolness of the air on his now exposed backside as his drawers were pulled down by a trembling pair of hands.

For a breathless moment, they both waited, and then, Wellard heard a small noise like a cork being plugged from a bottle, and an instant later, a wonderfully warm salve was being applied right across the longest, most painful lash at the very top of his buttocks.

He gasped at the odd sensation, but relaxed when he felt the pain, which had been driving tears to his eyes all day long, recede as quickly as if it had never been there at all.

"What is that?" Wellard asked huskily. "It feels wonderful."

There was a pleased smile clearly audible in the whispered response. "A simple lavender and herb salve."

"How do you.. what..." Wellard was unsure how to ask what he wanted to know.

"What do I know about healing?" the man asked.

"Yes."

"I began to train as a physician once. But I fell on hard times and could not complete my studies."

"Oh." Wellard thought that was a great loss to many a patient, and said so to the man gently tending to each and every lash with the patience of a saint.

"I doubt that," the voice said, and there was something like self-hatred in it. "I lack the compassion to make a good doctor."

Wellard protested, "You are helping me."

The man had stopped applying the salve and rose to his feet, pulling the blood-stained drawers and breeches back into place with great care and fastening them as though dressing a child. "Yes," he simply said, and a moment later, Wellard could only stand there, feeling rather confused, as he listened to hastily retreating steps.

When he pulled the blindfold from his eyes, Wellard saw that he was quite alone, with no pain to bother him anymore, but a strange emptiness filling him instead.

~ ~ ~

He did not mention the odd events of that night to anyone, nor did he let on the next day that his pain was gone. He still walked with great care, because his limbs were sore and he felt dead tired. In fact, were it not for his lack of pain, he might have thought he had dreamed the whole thing.

If it was a dream, it soon turned into a nightmare, for almost as soon as Wellard reported for duty, the captain once more singled him out for punishment. And while the inevitable was delayed by a, thanks to Mister Hornblower rather brief, battle, he did eventually find himself kissing the gunner's daughter once more, though how many lashes he received this time, he could not say. Between his lack of sleep, frustration and general weariness, he passed out from sheer dizziness when his second beating had barely begun.

Wellard's first thought on waking in the sickbay was that if he was very lucky, he might find himself alone with his healer again that night. That thought made him smile - something Doctor Clive seemed to find inappropriate to the extreme under the circumstances, because he pushed a small bottle of laudanum into his hand and roughly told him to get out and not take up one of his berths if he had no need of it anymore.

Wellard struggled to stand up, and dizziness washed over him once more. He was clutching onto a beam, grimacing with renewed pain, when Lieutenant Hornblower entered sickbay, and after an argument with Clive helped him back to the midshipmen's berth.

"You are relieved of your duties for the remainder of the day, Mister Wellard," Hornblower told him, a sad but detached look on his face.

"Thank you, sir."

Wellard slept for several hours, and when he woke up next, some of his bunk mates had come off duty and turned in. The ship's bell sounded eight times a few minutes later, and he decided that to be able to sleep through the night, he would need to get out of his hammock and move around a bit. He pushed any hopes of being tended as gently as the night before firmly from his mind, but decided to wander about the ship for a little while anyway.

He soon regretted his decision when he found his way through the main mess blocked by the sturdy and rather unpleasant form of Randall, who sneered at him disgustingly.

"Get out of my way, Randall," Wellard said more bravely than he felt.

"I s'pose you'll report me if I don't?" The seaman sneered.

Wellard knew as well as anyone onboard Renown that to report such a thing to Captain Sawyer would, at best, gain him another lashing.

He was saved from having to answer when someone stepped up behind him and said, "I thought you had work to do in the gun bay, Randall."

Raising a surprised eyebrow, Wellard half-turned to face Hobbs, who did not so much as meet his eyes, glaring rather fiercely at Randall instead.

Randall snorted, and gave Hobbs the kind of knowing smirk only a complete idiot was capable of. It was clear that he assumed the gunner wanted his own sport with the young midshipman. And if that were so, with Hobbs being a warrant officer, there was nothing _he_ could do.

"Guess you get first pick, 'ey, Hobbs?" He chortled and then shuffled away to whatever duty Hobbs had assigned to him earlier.

"What--" Wellard started, but then his eyes widened as he looked at Hobbs, and he flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears, having divined Randall's meaning.

Hobbs snickered. "Better be glad he thinks so, Mister Wellard." And with that, he walked off into the dark, before Wellard could so much as mutter a 'thank you'.

When the boy got back to the midshipmen's berth, he found everyone still fast asleep, and was glad of it, especially when he saw what had been placed across his pillow in his absence.

With a smile, he retrieved the black neck-kerchief and made his way to the hold.

Once there, he leaned against a bulkhead, listening carefully for any approaching footsteps. For one nauseating moment, he wondered whether Randall might not be his mysterious healer, but immediately discarded the idea as utterly ridiculous. The man was unlikely to be skilled at anything, let alone healing, and his rum-saturated breath and perpetually sweaty presence would have had Wellard running from the hold the night before. Instead, here he was, his heart pounding in anticipation at the thought of being touched by those infinitely gentle, warm hands again.

"You're not wearing your blindfold." The whispered accusation came from somewhere behind him and to his left.

Wellard smiled. "I couldn't very well stand blindfolded in the middle of the hold, all by myself, could I?" he asked boldly.

A warm chuckle which sounded rather familiar was his response. "No, I guess not." The voice, infuriatingly, was still carefully disguised by being little more than a breathy whisper. "Well then..."

"What?" Wellard asked, then he realized. "Oh, right." He quickly tied the black linen around his head and waited.

The other moved close, and Wellard unconsciously held his breath, and kept doing so while one hand carefully ran along the underside of the cloth and thus over his cheeks to check that he had affixed it properly.

Wellard waited, growing dizzy, while the other seemed to do little more than stare at him, or so he guessed.

"You'd better breathe, you know."

Wellard exhaled sharply. He slumped a little, and started when the hand grasped his upper arm and pulled him along to wherever they were going to be hiding. He followed willingly, and all went well, until he stumbled over a thick rope lying untidily on the ground.

"Oh!" he gasped, but before he could try to reach for something to hold onto, he was caught in the man's arms. Shamelessly taking advantage of the situation, he kept holding on a little longer as his head lay in the crook of the other's neck, and he pressed himself firmly against the solid form which was, most definitely, not Randall. He made a quick mental note of the type of vest and jacket the man was wearing. So it was an officer after all.

"Sorry, didn't see that there."

The hushed voice sounded both amused and shaky, and Wellard grinned even as he was being extricated from the other's embrace. "You might have left that there on purpose," he accused cheekily.

A pause. "I might have, if I'd thought to do it."

Both of them were smiling, but only one of them knew it.

"Come on then," the voice finally said, and they proceeded to heaven knew where.

Wellard found he did not much care, so long as... well, whoever he was... went there with him. "You still won't tell me who you are?" he asked a little sulkily.

"I was half expecting you to know that already." The voice sounded amused.

Wellard considered that, frowning beneath his blindfold. "I wonder..."

"Well, while you keep wondering, stand still and let's tend to your... your..."

Wellard almost laughed out loud at the other's embarrassment, considering his hands had been all over his backside the previous night already. He undid his breeches and lowered them, together with his drawers, just far enough to expose his latest lashings.

The other swore under his breath, tracing them carefully with his eyes, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Bloody madman".

Wellard hissed at the first application of a single finger to his sore and bloodied behind, but relaxed at the quickly following relief when the salve began to work its magic.

"Thank you," he sighed, and when his clothes were pulled back up and tucked neatly into place, he grasped the other's wrist before he could vanish into the darkness again. "Don't leave yet?" he pleaded.

The man was reluctant to stay, Wellard could feel it in the way he tugged to release his wrist from the boy's surprisingly firm grasp, but eventually he gave in. "Alright."

Wellard smiled. "Where are we?"

A snort. "In the hold."

"Yes, I know, but where exactly."

"Behind a bulkhead and sacks of flour stacked up high." The other still had not removed his wrist from Wellard's grasp.

"So we are definitely out of sight?" Wellard asked.

A suspicious "yes" was his answer, and Wellard smiled mischievously. "Good." And with one hand reaching up until he found the man's cheek, Wellard leaned forward and pressed a kiss to what he hoped would be the other's mouth, but having misjudged his healer's height a little, wound up landing on his chin. A chin with a noticeable indent, Wellard thought with great satisfaction.

The man stiffened against the assault, but could not stop himself from tilting his head forward and catching the sweet, searching mouth with his own. When Wellard moaned delightedly into the kiss, he pulled him roughly into his arms, clutching a handful of dark hair in one hand and the bunched up fabric of Wellard's reefer in the other.

When the man pulled back, panting heavily, he asked, "What did you do that for? And don't say it was to thank me."

"No," Wellard replied shakily, his fingers clutching tightly onto the other's jacket. "I did it because I wanted to know why you are helping me." When the other began to pull away, he held on tighter, and added, "And because I very much wanted to kiss you."

"You don't even know who I am," the man said. And after a moment's pause, "Do you?"

Wellard smiled, but said nothing.

With a sigh, the man struggled free of him, but he did not walk away. Instead, he slid down the wall behind him and sat on the floor, his head in his hands.

Wellard followed him down, still smiling, and touched a hand to the other's hair - the colour of honey, if he was not mistaken. He struggled to pull the man's hands from his face and awkwardly settled himself across the other's lap, wincing in pain.

"Wait," the man said, and with one strong arm around Wellard's waist, settled him across his thighs in such a way that the boy's backside was not touching anything.

"Thank you." Wellard laid his head on the man's broad shoulder with a sigh, as if it was his God-given right to do so.

"God, I never should have started this," the man chided himself even while he held Wellard close and stroked over his lustrous hair. "I should have just left the bloody salve on your pillow." The last bit was said in such a surprised tone that it was clear it had not occurred to him for an instant to proceed that way.

Wellard chuckled softly. "I'm glad you didn't, Mister Hobbs."

Hobbs sighed. "What gave me away?" he asked resignedly, no longer disguising his voice. His lips rested against Wellard's temple, and he stroked the boy's cheek, his thumb rubbing gently back and forth across his chin.

"You smell much too good to be one of the ratings, I know the other midshipmen and they're as weedy as I am, and if you were one of the commanding officers, you would not have felt the need to hide from me."

Hobbs laughed softly, a low rumble deep in his throat which vibrated pleasantly through Wellard's palm where it lay over Hobbs' broad chest.

"Mister Hobbs?"

"Yes, you infuriating boy?" It was said very softly.

"I was wondering if you might not remove my blindfold now?"

Wellard grinned as the cloth was gently unknotted with one hand and pulled from him, leaving his dark hair in adorable disarray.

When he looked up directly into Hobbs' face, his eyes widened and he gasped out loud. The look in the bright blue eyes gazing down at him was positively tender. And something else.

Wellard swallowed. "I have another request," he said huskily. This time, Hobbs merely nodded, too stunned by the affection and gratitude he saw in Wellard's adorable face to even attempt to speak. "Would you kiss me again?" Hobbs was about to oblige when Wellard placed a hand on his chest to stay him. "And once you have done so, Mister Hobbs, I might have a number of other requests. Would that be acceptable?"

"Not at all," Hobbs said. "But neither is fraternizing with the enemy, Henry Wellard. I say we pretend to have our own rules."

"Now that," Wellard said with a bright and very tempting smile. "Is definitely acceptable." Parting his lips and reaching up to bury his hand in honey blond tresses, Wellard made it quite clear that he thought any further talk could wait until some other time.

THE END

  
© and ™ of characters, locations, and some story lines - the estate of C. S. Forester, A &amp; E and possibly other entities; this story was written solely for the entertainment of other fans; no profit is made and no harm or infringement intended.


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